Why Worry?

All the stones I must turn on the road to Nanland

There’s something about waiting for something pivotal to happen that puts my braincells in a vise grip. I haven’t been able to articulate much at all lately. I feel guilty as I have lost a handful of subscribers. I haven’t been writing as I’ve felt like all I have to focus on is how many more days until they crack my skull and thread some electrodes similar in shape to a piece of spaghetti into my subthalamic nucleus (5!) in hopes it will alleviate the dystonia in my feet and the slowness in my body that has kept me from doing just about everything of late. I haven’t worked since a mishap in mid-April, I had planned to work until the end of this month. What’s that adage about making plans again? I think the keyword is DON’T. I justified all the time off with assurances I would treat myself like a precious object (where my Artist’s Way nerds at?) and I would be a zen spectacle to behold when it got down to the wire.

Remember when you believed that the only thing standing between you and being the Best Possible You ever was all the time you spent working and COVID quarantine blew a hole in that delusion? Yeah, I learned that one again the hard way.

Someone asked me recently, “What are you doing to distract yourself while you wait to have this done?” The idea of distraction instead of preparation seemed radical yet appealing and within reach. I replied that I had guests coming for a few days, so cooking and talking with them would be a good diversion for a bit. Indeed it was. We killed it in the sugar high department; chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, satsuma orange cake throughout the day. We laughed until the wee hours (middle aged translation: 11 pm) and I didn’t think about all my afflictions until my feet seized up coming back from the grocery store. But that was a blip in the two day period when I allowed myself to put my concerns on a shelf that was just out of reach. I was in my own house, I could amble off to bed at any time. I was bolstered by their visit interrupting my nonstop mental filmstrip of me as Girl With Impending Scary Surgery. I was just regular me. By the time they packed up and left, even their ever nervous chihuahua Bruno was spent from all the frivolity. Good times!

Bruno’s struggle to stay awake is REAL!

When they shipped out, I caught up with Nan Tepper, Substack graphic designer extraordinaire and story badass. I read Nan’s work almost immediately upon becoming a citizen of Substackland. There was so much juicy memoir stuff from so many talented women it took me a bit to start recognizing names and following and subscribing to writers here. Amidst the firehose of exemplary voices, I took notice of Nan after reading her post about waiting on Julia Child at Union Square Café in the late 80s. As a former server, I adore tales of restaurants (season 4 of The Bear drops 6/25…GO CARMIE!) We began to read each other regularly and then we became text and chat pals. Wonder twin powers activate in the form of a cool lady alliance! (Where my DC comic nerds at?)

Nan and I usually chat on FaceTime or Zoom as it’s more rewarding than a phone call. I seriously hate the phone for actual phone calls but video calls can be fun (please note that I didn’t have an office job during quarantine so I never lived full time on the Zooms) Anything involving Nan is fun as well. She is so enthusiastic about writing and her excitement is often “just what I need” contagious. The last thing she said to me before our goodbyes was “I wish I could give you a giant in-person Nan hug right now.”

When I hung up, I thought what is stopping you from getting a hug from Nan? God knows I could use one. And a change of scenery for a few days. I live in Chicago, Nan lives about an hour out of Albany, NY. I also live across the street from an airport and I can fly for free, so why wouldn’t I continue to amuse myself with more good people and furry friends before I’m on house arrest with divots in my skull where it was recently screwed to an ominous looking stereo static frame? MORE DISTRACTIONS, PLEASE.

Does this frame make my brain look weird?

The next day Nan and I talked in the morning and I asked her what her week looked like. Nan is usually busy with clients or teaching Substack to curious folks or writing writing writing. She said she was busy, but just regular busy. I asked if she might be able to grant me that extra special Nan hug in person if I crashed with her for a few days, she replied, “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I took that as an enthusiastic yes.

We both agreed there would be a multitude of reasons why it wouldn’t work out. As I’d be flying standby on a holiday weekend, the flight was probably full. If there was any kind of weather or delay we would have to cancel as my flight was due into Albany only a few hours before Nan had her Thursday class at 6 pm. Logistics could get complicated, I might wake up with a snarky case of the Parkies. We agreed that if at any time the Magic 8 Ball of life pointed to NO or even Outlook Not So Good, we should pull the plug and everyone would be cool with it. Disappointed but cool.

I must admit this is my unspoken agreement with everyone about everything lately. As much as I want to have a social life, the spoons are simply not there. I say NO to most invites and my YES often turns into a same day cancellation. Behavior I used to write off as “flaky” is now one of my most often used tools to protect my baseline. I start to worry about going to the airport. My last attempt to go to work was a bit of a public spectacle, one I am committed to not repeat. I worry I will break down at some point in the process and will have to hit the EJECT button out in the world on my own. It is comforting state of affairs that everyone involved will understand but just the thought of all that could go wrong has me clear on why I rarely say yes to anything anymore. I worry that I am becoming afraid to do anything as I have only the worst case scenarios running in my head on an endless loop.

I continue to monitor the situation, diligently scanning the facts to see what will eff us up on this mission. The flight is indeed full, but is forecasted to go out with a few open seats. All I can do is try. It’s also my last chance to go somewhere on an airplane as I will not be able to fly while my brain is under construction. I commence worrying I am burning out my support crew in advance of six more weeks full of procedures and appointments where I will lean on them pretty hard. I worry my various wants and needs over this upcoming period will turn me into someone other people need to pump themselves up to visit. I’ve already branded myself as a burden. What if I make it to Nanland and then I crash? It’s too much to ask of a new friend, right?

I wake up on Operation IRL Hug day feeling pretty solid. This is encouraging as many days I wake up and say “Nope, today is CANCELED!” due to lack of sleep, lack of motivation, lack of anything resembling a spoon. I tell Nan I am nervous about the airport but the flight is on time and is projected to go out with an empty seat or two. She tells me not to push myself. My ankles seize up as I take a shower. I take a deep breath and remind myself I can abort this mission at any time for any reason or no reason at all.

I am dripping sweat when I get to the gate. It’s taken me almost thirty minutes to walk the mile from my living room to the end of the A terminal and my legs stiffen and pain shoots through my hips when I try to hurry as I have all my stuff in a tote bag and not a roller bag. Rookie move, stewardess.

The customer service agent informs me there are two open seats and clears me for one of them. I text Nan that I think it’s a go. I sit at the gate and there are four young children running in circles nearby. Their bleary eyed parents are hoping to wear them out before we board. A girl about eight years old sits next to me and begins shaking the armrest of her chair back and forth as it’s not completely attached to the chair. She is yelling “THIS CHAIR IS BROKEN!!!” and her mother agrees, yes it’s broken but the more she messes with it the worse it will get. My mood tanks as I am so easily overwhelmed by noise, by motion, by stimulus of any kind. There is no sign of the shield of disassociation that has rendered me blissfully unaware of screaming babies for over two decades. But enough about the pilots. (rimshot, I’ll be here all week, folks) My hands and feet begin to fidget and get tingly and go numb.

I slip into the silence of noise canceling headphones after I find a seat. I text Nan and tell her I should be landing around 3 pm. The flight is uneventful, which is a relief. Shortly before we land she tells me she is outside waiting for me on the curb, blue Mini Cooper, white top and mirrors. “I will see you soon!” I text her.

I am certain this is where my body will give up. I mean, it’s the worst possible timing. I am in a city I don’t know meeting someone I’ve never met before and we have time constraints. I feel the cortisol swirling through my insides and I’m struck by the idea that I haven’t been properly concerned about EVERYTHING that could go wrong; flat tires, thunderstorms, in person incompatibility, differences of opinion about breakfast cereal, impending awkward silences/boredom, human sacrifices, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria. (where my Ghostbuster nerds at?)

I am certain that Nan is an absolute delight and I am ecstatic to go hug her as per our master plan but what if I’m missing something? My phone recognizes her but my computer is still has her as a maybe…have I not spun out enough over every possible catastrophe?

Maybe? Her photo is right there, computer. What else do you need?

I pause and tell myself what everyone of every stripe has been telling me for a long ass time now.

YOU GOT THIS.

I stand up when we get to the gate, creaky but in a regular 58 year old lady kind of way. I patiently wait for everyone in front of me to retrieve their carry on luggage. (Disclaimer: this is a huge lie, I am not even remotely patient with slow moving people, how hypocritical is that?!?!)

I center myself and wobble off the plane. Once I am in the airport, I pick up speed. I feel my legs swooshing underneath me. As I round the TSA checkpoint to the exit, I am trotting like a prize pony. I pick the first door that leads to the outside and I see the blue Mini Cooper, white top and mirrors. Nan is looking at her phone at first, then she looks up and sees me. We run towards each other beaming and bask in the glow of our successful mission…the awesome real life hug.

“We did it!” I tell her.

Our visit was magnificent, proof that a singular cat and two dogs can live together with zero mass hysteria. I allowed myself to not worry about anything the entire time and it was glorious. I slept like a stone with the window open to the cool quiet Hudson Valley air. I spotted Nan while she changed some light bulbs on a step stool (Quick PSA: check in with your peeps who live alone, ask them if they have projects that require another set of hands/ears/eyes!) We talked and wrote and laughed and did all the things we love to do without ever leaving the house. We both wrote about the visit, I highly recommend you read Nan’s take on it here.

I had a whole row to myself on the plane home. Stretching out my legs, I played “Why Worry”, an old Dire Straits song I’ve used to pacify my anxiety in the past. The lyrics aren’t particularly profound.

“Why worry
There should be laughter after pain
There should be sunshine after rain
These things have always been the same
So why worry now
Why worry now”

But this 2006 live version with Emmylou Harris always brings me a sense of calm.

Comfort can be derived from the simplest of things; Emmylou Harris’ voice, a soft blanket, a plan that goes off without a hitch, a much needed hug from a wonderful friend. I recall the end of the play W;t (or Wit, where my early 90’s theater nerds at?) where the academic protagonist who has spent her entire life pondering the depths of the metaphysical poetry of John Donne is comforted in her last breaths by her professional mentor reading to her from a children’s book titled “The Runaway Bunny”.

There is nothing to be gained by trying to outsmart all of the things all of the time. Anxiety at a basic level can protect you (look both ways before you cross!) but one should be mindful of the point of diminishing returns. The semicolon in the title of the play reminds me of Nan’s wrist tattoo, a bracelet of semicolons that tells the world that the past may have been rough but the story is far from over.

T-minus six days. I have appointments up the wazoo and Chicago is dealing out its millionth cold and rainy day in a row. I will spend the rest of the week with antibacterial goop up my nose after showering with antibacterial soap. Not on my short list of fun things to do but c’est la vie. I look forward to reporting my findings from the other side after they shave a hole in my newly pink pixie head.

World, I hear you loud and clear.

I GOT THIS.

E and Nan after Operation IRL Hug. Nan’s shitzu Hugo insisted on photo bombing. His eyes tell us “My name has a HUG in it! You can’t exclude me!”